In the Cold Distance
by Green Owl
Summary: She waited, guarding the stillness between them, doing her best to fill it with compassion and acceptance. He would talk when he was ready, and if, and only if, he felt safe. (USS CARYL One-Year Anniversary Fan Fiction Challenge)


Title: "In the Cold Distance"  
Challenge: USS CARYL One-Year Anniversary  
Author: Green Owl  
Word Count: 2,800+  
Pairing: Daryl Dixon + Carol Peletier  
Rating: T ("Dixon tongue")  
Timeline: Between Episodes 3.15 and 3.16  
Summary: Carol and Daryl share food and thoughts.  
Author Notes: Inspired by bard and balladeer, Bob Dylan, and his mighty mob of merry minstrels: Jimi Hendrix (_Electric Ladyland_), Eric Clapton and Lenny Kravitz (_The Concert of the Century_), and my personal favorite, Dave Matthews, who gave an incendiary performance at _Woodstock '99_.

Disclaimer: I don't own or buy/sell/process this mind crack - I just abuse the _hell_ out of it.

* * *

It was almost twilight when Carol heard his footsteps on the stairs.

She wasn't surprised that he was resuming his regular duties after what had happened. Routine was his coping mechanism of choice, his way of exerting some control, however small, over the utter chaos that life had become. Being able to get away from the pathetic platitudes and awkward attempts made by the rest of their group to console him was just an added bonus.

She was surprised when his footfalls stopped next to her and he handed her a bowl. "Brought ya dinner."

"Thanks," Carol said as she rose to her feet, her gaze distracted by the small herd that had massed near the newly repaired section of fence. "He did a good job. I think it'll hold."

"He always had a way with metal," Daryl agreed.

"Guess I'll be going," she said, tucking her sweater around her body a little more with one hand as she held the bowl in the other.

He hunkered down, slid his legs over the side, and reached for his own bowl. "Don't hafta."

She hesitated. He never said anything for the sake of being polite. "Mind if I…?"

"Sure," he said, blindly patting the concrete next to him.

She sat down again, mimicking his position as she let her legs dangle over the side.

They sat there in silence, eating, watching the herd, converting oxygen into carbon dioxide.

"Mmmm," she murmured into the stillness as she savored a mouthful. "Texas caviar. Not bad."

"Little Greene's been getting' better with the spices," Daryl agreed. "Still can't salt for shit."

Carol suppressed a smirk. "She's a teenager. Her tastebuds haven't fully developed yet."

"Among other things," he added in a deadpan.

"You've been looking?" she asked, irritated by the way her organs shifted swiftly inside her ribcage.

He snorted. "She's a baby."

"Judith's a baby," she pointed out.

"Not my type," he shrugged. "'Sides, Merle called dibs."

Carol choked on a piece of corn. "What?"

"Said she was prettier than a peach in mid-July," Daryl mused, shoveling another spoonful into his mouth before smacking her none-too-gently on the back to get her breathing again. "Wasn't about to start lookin' at a girl who makes my brother start spoutin' cheap poetry."

"She's very beautiful," Carol commented as she caught her breath, trying to keep her tone light.

She envied Beth Greene her pale, delicate, fresh beauty. The girl was in her first blush of youth. And bleak though it might be, she had the whole world ahead of her.

Carol knew she had squandered her spring and most of her summer on the likes of one Edwin Peletier, former football hero of T.C. Williams High's Class of '86. He was now a corpse rotting in a hillside overlooking the Bellwood Quarry outside of Atlanta, GA, and she was now in her autumn, with nothing to look forward to except an endless winter of withering as she mourned for her dead.

What a waste.

"Yeah, she's nice," he agreed. "Sings pretty, too."

What was the goal of the two of them having this conversation? Was he asking her for her opinion on Beth? Her blessing for the two of them?

Now that Merle was dead, there was nothing to keep Daryl from approaching the girl.

Oh, God, what if he wanted her to coach him in courting Beth?

The thought made her stomach turn, but Carol couldn't afford to lose her appetite because she was having uncomfortable feelings. She would need every calorie she could get for what was coming. It was a battle, but she kept the spoon going from the bowl to her mouth without a break in rhythm.

She took solace in one thing as the whirlwind of her thoughts progressed from tropical storm to hurricane level. He was right. The food did need salt.

"Merle did like his blondes," Daryl continued. "Used to have a thing for Andrea."

"So calling her 'sugar tits' was his way of trying to sweet-talk her?" she asked between mouthfuls, interested in where he was going with their exchange.

"Nah," he said, inverting the spoon so he could lick it. "She only had eyes for Walsh an' he only had eyes for Rick's wife. Fuckin' soap opera's what it was."

Carol shook her head and smiled. "The things I missed out on while doing laundry."

"Count yer blessin's. Was out on a hunt once and I happened to hear Deputy Dumbass and the First Lady goin' at it."

She pursed her lips, twitched them from side to side, debated on whether to push him for details.

"Go on an' ask," he urged her as he elbowed her gently. "You know you wanna."

She turned to him, opened her mouth, then shut it, bit her lips, and shook her head.

"Woman squealed like a pig when he was stickin' it to her," Daryl confided, his face expressionless.

"Ewww!"

"I know, right? Felt like I needed to scrub myself with Comet an' a toothbrush after witnessin' that."

Carol placed her empty bowl to the side. "I thought for a while that Shane and Andrea were, um, together. Did you ever see them?"

"Nope," he replied as he set his bowl down next to himself. "You?"

"I saw them sneak off into the woods. It was the day before…."

She couldn't finish the sentence. It still hurt too much.

He understood like he always did, and didn't pursue the topic.

They drifted into silence again as the last rays of the setting sun washed the world in red and gold.

This time, he was the one who broke it.

"Night like this'd have Merle reachin' for a purple scarf."

She leaned forward with a hint of a smile, rested her crossed hands on the bars, then rested her chin on her wrists. "I had no idea your brother was into accessorizing."

Daryl mimicked her pose. "Ya got the wrong idea. I forget, ya probably never did anythin' in your life. A 'scarf' is about a Hamilton's worth o' Mary Jane. Really potent stuff's purple."

"You're right," she agreed. "I never really experimented with drugs."

"Me neither. Saw enough of Merle high an' doin' fucked up shit to know I never wanted to be like that." Daryl's eyes narrowed as he looked off in the direction of Woodbury. "Do ya think she'll go through with it?"

Carol swallowed, took a breath, let it out. "I don't know."

"Can't believe ya suggested it."

"Why? Don't think it'll work?"

"Nah," he replied. "Makes sense. Besides drinkin', fuckin's the best way to put a man off his guard."

"I take it you speak from personal experience?" she ventured, an impish flavor to her voice.

She'd spent a season in close quarters with him as she recovered from the loss of her lifestyle, her husband, and her child. He'd given her all the space she needed, never pushed her to talk, and even though she knew it annoyed the hell out of him, she suspected he'd let her sass him and tease him as a way of rediscovering who she was without her bearings.

But they had never, ever discussed his sex life, and she was genuinely curious.

Their eyes met.

His mouth twisted, and his eyebrows lifted as he shrugged his shoulders.

Her lips parted in astonishment and he hastily slid eyes from hers.

"Never?" she whispered.

He bit his lips, shook his head.

"Why?"

He was so quiet, so still, that she had to strain to hear him when he finally spoke.

"It's stupid."

She waited, guarding the stillness between them, doing her best to fill it with compassion and acceptance. He would talk when he was ready, and if, and only if, he felt safe.

Her patience was rewarded.

"Grow up in the Blue Ridge Mountains an' your last name's Dixon, you're already startin' out with a reputation," Daryl began. "Havin' an older brother like Merle? Shit…."

He shifted, letting a hand dangle over the side as he gripped the bar with the other hand.

"Two kinds of people in my family: those who fuck for fun, those who can't do it without…."

He moved again, and the arm that had been dangling moved to grip the uppermost bar on the railing.

"Merle, my uncle Jess, my ol' man, they was like the first kind. Anythin' that moved. Didn't have to be pretty. Didn't have to be sober. Just had to be willin'. Girls in town knew the score. 'Ya wanna get laid? Call a Dixon.' Everyone knows it's all we was good for. Yeah, it's real nice, havin' to live with that kind o' reputation," he continued, his face pinched with memories. "I took after my momma. She was crazy 'bout my pa. Used to break her down, how he'd be fuckin' his way through the newest batch of barely-legals, while she stayed home, drinkin' 'way her hurt."

He took a deep breath, let it out.

"Ain't like my brother. Or my pa an' his brother. Ain't got it in me to just…ya know. Not with someone I don't care 'bout."

"But there must have been someone," Carol prodded gently.

"No," he answered, meeting her eyes for a moment before he looked away. "Least, not 'fore the world went ta shit."

Carol swallowed her possessiveness until it joined her dinner, a cold, hard lump sitting in the pit of her stomach. "Beth's a lucky girl."

He shot her a look. "What the fuck ya on 'bout? Ya happy my brother's dead so he can't bang 'er an' break her heart?"

She pulled back, perplexed. "No, I am not happy he's dead. He was your brother and you loved him. If anything, I'm angry that he couldn't find a way out. That he left you like he did. I just thought you and…."

"Me an' _Beth_?" he asked, spitting the girl's name out like a mouthful of dirty dishwater.

She would have laughed at his expression, but for the steep delicacy of the rapport between them.

"Well why not?" Carol pressed, unwilling to believe that he didn't find the girl attractive.

Daryl blinked. "Sure, she's decorative, but she an' me don't... Damn, wish I had the words to 'splain it."

Carol didn't try to help him. She'd learned a long time ago that he had what she privately thought of as an emotional stutter. He wouldn't appreciate it if she tried to put her words in his mouth. He needed to work it out on his own.

"I don't…I don't feel anythin' going on in here" – he pointed to his chest – "when I consider 'er. There's just 'sweet girl, nice voice, needs to learn how to cook better.'"

Carol ducked her head and chewed on the bottom of her lip as warm relief spiked her bloodstream. It disturbed her how pleased she was feeling in that moment. She knew he wasn't hers, but she was profoundly glad, almost to the point of tears, or laughter, that he wasn't anybody else's either.

And in the next moment she shivered as she felt the chill of the evening settle on the metal and begin seeping into her fingers.

"I should go," she said, moving to gather up their bowls.

"Not yet," he asked as she turned to leave. "Please."

Ed never said "please." Daryl usually didn't either, but ever since he'd found her in solitary, it was constantly there in the tone of his voice, a kindness of expression that told her that it would always be her choice whether to stay or leave. Now that he'd actually said the word out loud, she found that the emotion it sparked in her was as compelling as the fear of Ed's backhand used to be.

She put the bowls inside the door and wordlessly sat back down, wrapping the edges of her sweater around her.

"Cold?"

She nodded, rubbing the tip of her chilled nose.

"Here," he said, stripping off the long black canvas jacket he'd worn over his leather and handing it to her.

She snuggled into it, luxuriating in the warmth and the scent of his clean sweat that clung to it.

The sky was fading from orange to purple as they watched the shadows of the watchtower and the Walkers lengthen in the gloom.

"When do you think they'll come?" she asked.

"Tomorrow," he said. "First light o' dawn."

"There must be some way out of this," she muttered.

"'Said the Joker to the Thief,'" he quoted as he looked at her.

Carol smiled at his comment. It fit them. Somehow, through all of their suffering, she had managed to keep her sense of humor, and he had held up Death so many times she was sure the Grim Reaper had a warrant out for his arrest.

"Do you think it's a good plan?" she asked, resting her cheek against the railing.

"It's a plan," he said noncommittally as he rolled his shoulders. "Glenn rubber-ducked ya yet?"

"Huh?"

"It's a sayin' o' his. He used to write code and debug computers before. Said that the best way to explain things was to tell it to the one who makes bath time lots o' fun." He stretched his legs out in front of him. "Rick put him in charge o' the welcome wagon. You should check in with him to get your assignment."

"You packed yet?"

He nodded. "Yeah. You?"

"Yes. It's surprisingly easy when all of one's worldly goods can fit into a backpack."

"Least this time we've got a warnin' first," he mused. "Not like we're gonna be facin' a dead sprint after a night o' drinkin' or a day of farmin'."

"I wanted more time," she admitted.

"Woman, all we got is time," he said, not unkindly. "It's all any of us have ever got. Fill up our days with the bare necessities, but we're just waitin' to die. Only difference is how we're gonna face it. An' what we're gonna do between now and then."

"What do you want to do?" she asked.

"Stay alive as long as I can," he said, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Long enough to see Lil' Asskicker take her first steps. Mebbe long enough to teach Carl to track. Definitely long enough to gut that motherfucker what turned my brother."

She reached out to him, placed her small, pocket-warmed hand atop his larger, wind-chilled one.

He surprised her by turning his hand so that their palms connected and their fingers wrapped around each other.

"I need to ask ya somethin'," he said, his voice hesitant.

His eyes met hers again and she felt her heart turn over at how timid he seemed in that moment.

"Yes?"

"Can I…can I talk to ya 'bout Merle sometimes? There's so much 'bout him that no one knows. Good stuff." Daryl paused, weighing his words, fighting their impact. "Like how he used to keep a shoebox full o' change under his bed so's I could have milk money when our ma was too drunk to remember to give it to me. I don't wanna forget that."

Carol nodded as she tightened her hand around his. "Of course."

He looked away, but held onto her. "Figured if I had someone to talk to 'bout him every now an' then, it'd be easier to remember."

"It is," she said, remembering certain conversations she'd had with Beth as she taught the girl how to look after the baby.

She watched him as he watched the Walkers riding against the fence, and for one brief moment, she was glad these barefoot servants of pestilence and despair existed.

If not for them, she would never have known the true measure of herself, how much she could lose and still want to live, how much she could endure and still want to survive.

And in this moment, when he needed her most, she was glad that she was here to hold Daryl Dixon's hand as he began his grieving process.

The stars were beginning to flicker when she spoke again.

"I should go soon," she said. "Have to get some sleep."

"Just a few more minutes," he pleaded, his eyes scanning the dark horizon.

"Are we waiting for something?" she asked as she looked in the same direction.

"Shhh," he cautioned, pointing. "Look."

Her eyes followed the direction of his finger and she smiled as a prince of the forest appeared, its massive rack of antlers twisting into the night sky.

"Deer are fuckin' majestic, aren't they?" he said, his voice full of wonder.

"I thought you would have said they were 'fuckin' tasty,'" she teased.

"Nah," he said wistfully as the buck darted back into the trees. "That was Merle's line."

She smiled at him as she squeezed his hand gently.

He responded by lacing their fingers together.

"Still don't know why he did it," he said as he gazed out in the cold distance.

"We may never find out," she replied.

"I know." He hung his head. "Ya think mebbe he was tryin' to make things right?"

"He was your brother," she answered. "I'd expect nothing less."

* * *

THE PROMPT (PER THE USS CARYL):

"Your fanfiction must include these elements.

"It must take place in the watchtower.

"Somewhere in your story, you must include a shoebox, toothbrush, purple scarf and a rubber duck.

"Somewhere in your story, the phrase "deer are [fucking] majestic" must be included. *expletives are optional and will neither add nor detract from your score*"

So you tell me, reader, how did I do?

Much love,

Green Owl


End file.
